They die for you, you die for them
by Nina-osp
Summary: To Enjolras' eyes, Patria was beautiful to watch. .:Enjolras/Patria:. .:one-sided ExR:.


Okay, so... Just a heads up.

This was based off a headcanon of my friend Ana (currently known as tumblr user bocajenjy) has, that Enjolras' first and only love is Patria. (eventhoughwebothshipExRsomuch) Because of this, she's been wanting to read a good fanfic of a personification of Patria for a while. So I wrote her one =)

I never read the book, so this is fully based on the 2012 movie, okay guys?

Warnings: angst, drama, and one-sided ExR if you look hard enough (sorry, I couldn't stop myself.)

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To Enjolras' eyes, Patria was beautiful to watch.

He could see Her when he talked; She was always by his side while he'd go on and on about the corrupt government that dared stain Her purity, about Her hungry citizens, the children She cared about so much but couldn't move a finger to help. And so She wept, in grief and pain for Her children's suffering.

Enjolras couldn't and wouldn't, see Her cry. Not if he could do something about it.

So he planned a revolution. One that would end the suffering of the people, that would wipe corruption clean of his beautiful Patria. The people would join them on the barricades; why shouldn't they? They were fighting for the people, for their freedom and for their rights. For their Mother nation, for their Patria.

For his Patria. Yes, She deserved it. She deserved to see Her children rise against those who dared to darken the bags under Her beautiful blue eyes, to stain Her fair skin with the blood of the innocent. Yes, they would bathe Her, water Her with the blood of her enemies and She would laugh. laugh and celebrate with him because he would have freed her, and She would love him as much as he loved Her.

Combeferre would tell him he wasn't being logical, that this was a fruitless ilusion. Courfreyac would mock him; his Patria wasn't even real, She was just a fragment of his imagination he had associated with his ideals (he knew it wasn't true, but it still hurt.). And Grantaire...

Well, Grantaire said She was his Apollo, and that he respected that, whatever it meant. Odd, to have the drunken sceptic to defend his beliefs in Patria.

And She loved him just as much as she loved the rest of them.

When the revolution started, She'd come with him. Her sky-blue eyes shining with excitement, ablaze with the fire of revolution, of happiness to see Her children rising for Her, Her wild red hair like the tail of a comet behind Her as they ran, Her snow-white skin flushing for the physical effort She wasn't used to - of course not, She was a goddess, She had people to tend to Her very wishes.

People like him.

So as they ran, and She laughed that beautiful laughter of hers, filled with joy and as heavenly-sounding as a chorus of angels, and it resonated through his skull and into his very soul, and he laughed as well.

The people would join the barricades. Her children would join in the fight to free their Mother, and their revolution would be glorious.

The people didn't join the barricades.

It had been only them, and a couple of others. Enjolras didn't let the flame die in him, though - after all, his Patria wasn't free yet. It wasn't easy to keep the flame blazed in his friends, however. And the less they believed, the more Patria's frown deepened, the more She'd enclose herself, and the less She believed in their cause.

If Patria Herself didn't believe in the cause, what hope they had of winning?

Things changed when Gavroche got shot.

Courfreyac had cried shamelessly, clutching the small body close to him, shaking his shoulders and heavily weeping. If one were to ask any of them, they'd say no one cried harder or longer than him.

But they didn't see Patria.

She cried for the death of Her child until Her eyes were dry and blood started to run down Her cheeks, staining Her skin and Her gown, the dress only a Greek divinity would be allowed to wear, and the red of the tears soaked on the red of the tricolour She wore over Her shoulders.

Red, the blood of angry men.

Red, the tears of a Mother in grief.

But then, She was done. When Patria rose once more, Her eyes were no longer dull of disbelief, nor were they ablazed with revolution.

No, the flame that burnt into Her pure blue eyes was the fire of revenge.

And he took Her hand and swore he'd help kill those who dared to spill the blood of Her innocent children.

They didn't make it.

The cannons were too much for their barricade to handle. When Patria saw the soldiers shoot Her children, the dear children who fought for Her, the sound of Her heart shattering was loud enough for Enjolras to hear.

He saw Her kneel to the floor, cover Her face with shaky hands as She wept for her dear boys. And he couldn't bear this, this sight of simple and pure despair. So he rushed the survivors into the Musain, and he told them to keep quiet, and as he saw their bodies fall he prayed to God that at least one - at least Grantaire - would've managed to keep hidden for Her own sake.

But as the dark curls caught his eyes, those defiant and sceptic eyes of the drunken who hadn't run away met his own, he pressed his mouth into a firm line, suppressing the pride he felt for him.

Grantaire would die by his side, for his Patria. For something he didn't even believe in, and only because he asked him to.

And as he raised their flag and grasped his hand, he saw Grantaire's eyes widen as patria stood by their side, head held up high, tears dry, one hand lifting their flag as well and the other baring Her chest fearlessly for their enemies.

And as the bullets hit their chests, the last thought to cross enjolras' mind was that Grantaire could see Her too, he had seen their beloved Mother face death up close and side-by-side with Her boys.

When Enjolras opened his eyes again, was to be presented with the smiling face of his beloved patria, next to the awed, surprised and amazed expression of a certain drunken 'coward'.

And the he saw their barricade as he had imagined it to be, tall and proud and imposing, and he saw all those who had died on the barricades and a lot more of people he hadn't even seen before.

The people had joined their barricade. And he stood at the top of it, in his rightful place as their leader, sided by his perfect, happy and freed Patria, and by the drunken coward who had died for them.

Maybe his revolution was glorious, after all.


End file.
